


One Last Time

by robotfvckers



Series: Halloween Strawpoll Prompts [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ghost Sex, M/M, No Incest, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pining, Robot Sex, Sad with a Happy Ending, Voyeurism, gaping, is this sad is this hot we just don't know, valveplay, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Zenyatta cannot let go. Mondatta helps.





	One Last Time

Omnics do not dream.

Their thoughts and memories are data, organized and backed up several times in an operating cycle as standard maintenance, one of many background functions.

So when Zenyatta awakens from sleep mode with his processes muddled and array buzzing with hallucinated feedback, he searches for answers. He checks the temple database, the intranet on which all shambali connected, but finds no mention of abnormalities during sleep cycles. He does not ask his brothers and sisters, unwilling to disturb the already tumultuous environment that bristles at his presence. Some did not appreciate his arrival, especially since he was not there when his brother—

Perhaps a visit to the village engineer would be prudent.

Seated in lotus, the first rays of the sun warming his metal, it is easy for his thoughts to drift.

His travels had made him more powerful, and the touch of the Iris comes easier. He can fall deeper into its embrace, envelop himself in its blinding warmth and channel its glow. He supposes that is when the dreams started, weeks ago, when he had first arrived. Meditation had taken him like reading a favorite book, pages yellowed and dog-eared from countless touches, into the Iris’ embrace. The call of it is closer here than anywhere he had been; perhaps the meditative consciousness weakened the reality of the space, made it liminal, allowing passage where one would not normally be able to go.

The Iris, he had known, felt, was not a singular entity. It was made up of a collective, many souls synthesized into one. That time had been different. He had passed, and someone had received. A speck of white blue centered within warm gold, an influx shape with nine eyes, staring into his own. Its energy had reached out to him.

He had startled from the embrace, sorrow squeezing along every point of of his chassis as he fell back into his reality.

“Master.”

Zenyatta’s array flickers. He turns towards his student, who watches him with worry creasing his brow.

“Is something wrong? You have been out of sorts since we arrived.”

“My apologies. I have had many things on my mind.”

Genji’s expression evens out as he leans in, shifting to face him completely.

“Tell me your thoughts. I wish to help you as you have helped me.”

Zenyatta hums as he wonders where to begin, and Genji waits with well-fought patience that warms Zenyatta’s core.

“I have spoken at length about the Iris. Tell me, my student, can you feel its pull?”

Genji pauses. “I had believed at first that the Iris was a myth, then that it was something only omnics could feel. As you guided me, as I have accepted my new body, I believe I have felt something akin to it. Here.” Genji touches his chest. “A weight settles, warm, but not overbearing. Before it was a ghost, something that I could feel when you passed into it. Now, within the temple, it is a constant presence.”

Zenyatta nods.

“You have learned much. I am proud of you.”

His student smiles, scarred cheeks dusting with color. “You honor me.” Genji scrubs his hand along the back of his neck. “Yet this is not what you wish to discuss.”

“I always wish to voice my praise for you.”

Zenyatta places his hand upon his student’s armored thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before he withdraws. His student dips his head, going strangely still before motioning for Zenyatta to continue.

He tells Genji of his dream, of the familiar presence that lingers within the Iris.

“Often humans dream about what troubles them, what is forefront in our minds. Perhaps as I have learned from you and changed, humans have changed how you store and reflect upon your memories. Maybe that is all it is.” Then, more quietly. “You miss him.”

“I do.”

Zenyatta tilts his faceplate low, array dimming. Genji settles his hand upon Zenyatta’s thigh. He accepts his student’s comfort, too lost within his own thoughts to notice the strange expression upon his face.

* * *

The more time passes, the stronger his presence becomes. It is almost too much when his feedback glitches, seeing him where he should not, outside of the dream, outside of the Iris’ light. At the corner of his array, seated in the spot where he would perform daily meditation, or at the end of a long hallway, a phantom that disappears if he stares directly. He sees him in his quarters that he only visits once, discord warring too heavily to linger. Everything has remained in its place, like he is still there. The only change is a small portrait that sits on a low dresser, a memorial which is too difficult to view for long. He should embrace his sorrow, read it and catalogue it, know it, let it go. He cannot. Not yet.

He cannot let him go.

* * *

It is his refusal, his staunch stubbornness that keeps him from telling Genji of these hallucinations, from visiting the village engineer like he told himself he would. He overclocks his processors, strains his array, spends too long reviewing the footage, staring at the grainy outlines of what he thinks he sees, core tight and pained each and every time.

It is only then the dream changes.

* * *

The Iris swells around him. Its gold wavers at the edges of his vision, and along it the white-blue presence burns, a corona in his mind, flaring into its core. The familiar array appears, and Zenyatta _aches_. Nine arms extend towards him, swirling with power, his aura, and clutch his chin, stroke along his faceplate, his back, drawing him forward. Harmony swells in his chest, fighting against his sorrow. His arms blanket him, stroke down his spine, and Zenyatta cries out, voice box glitched on a mangled sob. He wants to move, to return the embrace, to tear him from the light.

In that moment, he would betray the Iris, all that he knows, to have him back. They were the same model, created in the same omnium, had learned awareness, found love, together. He was Zenyatta’s everything.

_Please. I need you._

_I am sorry, brother._

Mondatta touches his array to Zenyatta’s own, and they are warm and safe and perfect, like they had been before. Before the fights, before dogma and connection split their paths. Before Mondatta had been taken from him too soon.

* * *

He startles online. The ceiling blurs as his array restarts, flickering, a low, raspy sound escaping him, so pathetic and low it makes him weaker just to hear it. The nearly translucent glow of Mondatta’s array filters into his vision, so much like his hallucinations, a ghost at the edge of consciousness.

Zenyatta has so many questions. Mondatta reads him easily, settles his hand against the column of his throat, muffling his voice box.

“We do not have much time.” Mondatta intones, beautiful and deep, like he remembers. Zenyatta chirps quietly, the sound vibrating along Mondatta’s servos.

His other hand traces down Zenyatta’s pistons, twisting along them, catching against the hexagonal shell of his power unit. Zenyatta's whole body shakes, electric and astounded and wanting.

“Brother.” Zenyatta whispers, muffled into Mondatta’s palm as Mondatta’s other hand weaves beneath his chestplate, caressing sensitive nodes, tracing against deeper, delicate wires interlocked to his core. “I am so sorry. I was not there to protect you.”

Mondatta’s array glows brighter, and he flattens his palm to Zenyatta’s middle, a comforting weight. “There is no need to apologize. Everything is as the Iris wills it.”

Zenyatta shakes his head violently, and the hand pinned at his throat cups his faceplate, so tender and gentle that Zenyatta sobs.

“Do not cry, precious one. I am always with you.”

His intent is obvious; they have done this hundreds of times, first when they were new, exploring, recently freed from their primary function. Then, in a show of true affection, of love. He grasps Mondatta’s faceplate with both hands, recording his outline, sensors reading faint omnic energy, Mondatta’s signature.

“How I long to take you apart so slowly and thoroughly that you would forget all sorrows.” Mondatta murmurs, the hand at his core slipping into Zenyatta’s pants, releasing his panel with a deft press, tracing a finger along Zenyatta’s valve, wet and sensitive and so primed for him. “Please let me, brother. I have missed you so.”

Zenyatta’s hands slip to Mondatta’s shoulders, hips angling back when Mondatta tugs his pants down his trembling thighs, fingers catching against ghostly wires as his brother teases his valve, caressing the twitching cock just above, already dripping pearls of teal.

“Yes. Anything.” Zenyatta whimpers.

He arches, chirps when Mondatta grasps his cock. His brother strokes it while his other hand teases his nub in warm, quick presses that weaken his whole body, the feedback of it bursting in his mind, fizzling as the pleasure heightens, catching against him in waves. He hooks his arm around Mondatta’s neck, his other hand twisting between their bodies, unlatching the barely there outline of Mondatta’s panel, his cock sliding into his hand.

Mondatta hisses, guttural and deep, so different from his resonant, even timbre that first taught lessons and then delivered speeches, drew crowds the size of cities. This Mondatta was his, and Zenyatta surges, working Mondatta’s cock greedily while he wraps his legs around Mondatta’s chassis, pulling him down.

“Please, Mondatta.” He whispers, moaning as their cocks slide together with a hot, slick catch that makes their arrays burn in tandem. He shifts his legs higher, spreads himself to grind against Mondatta’s cock, and he clamps a hand around his throat, stifling the weak, desperate whimpers that spill like a tide.

_“Please.”_

* * *

He couldn’t sleep. It’s the only reason Genji leaves his bed during the coldest part of the night, why he walks past Zenyatta’s room and hears the strange noises coming from within.

It sounds like sobs.

Genji opens the door without hesitation, his master’s name balanced on his tongue.

At first, his mind cannot make sense of it.

Zenyatta’s knees are even with his chest, legs splayed to either side, pinned by the spectral outline of another omnic. He wonders for a moment if it is a projection of the Iris, but it does not shine, does not blind him with harmony and glow. Yet it holds his master in its arms, rocks into him with a harried drag, fucks him into the straw-stuffed mattress of Zenyatta’s bed.

Genji clamps a hand over his mouth, metal segments biting into his skin.

He had thought him sexless; what a foolish assumption. The way he teased, how he held Genji during small, intimate moments, the way he responded when Genji spoke flirtatiously.

_Knowing._

He stares between Zenyatta’s smooth, quivering thighs that bracket his swollen teal valve, pooling onto the sheets, speared wide on a nearly invisible cock. His insides are so velvet-slick and warm looking, clenching and twitching around nothing, how the soft folds suckle the head of the cock, trying to keep it inside. The thick, wet squelch of their coupling is quiet but undeniable now that there is no door muffling it, and Genji reels at Zenyatta’s broken sounds. His desperate cries had blocked out the gentle rocking of their bodies. The need to bury his tongue inside that hot, wet space, work Zenyatta’s cock inside his throat, swallow around it while his master trembles and grasps his hair, burns through his guts with startling swiftness. He trembles with it, how the desire sinks its teeth into him, the need to pleasure and touch every newly exposed part of Zenyatta he has not known.

His master is a mess of clicks and whirs, throaty low whines breaking on stuttering gasps that shoot through his own ears and pulse hot in his belly. He muffles his gasp against his palm, his buried emotions trapped in love-lust-longing that he cannot parse, especially when Zenyatta sobs another’s name in his pleasure.

_“Mondatta.”_

Coldness ricochets along Genji’s spine, confusion and disbelief suspending his longing for a few, endless seconds. It’s obvious, so obvious now, Mondatta’s deep voice, the familiar faceplate, even at the strange angle. His free hand, still poised on the door, twitches. He should leave. This is not for him to see, but he cannot draw himself away nor tear his eyes from Zenyatta’s body, how his graceful hands scrabble along Mondatta’s back, catching in his wires, clutching him like a lifeline.

Genji groans, eyes twisting shut as his own cock pulses, synthetic and locked within, even as it tries to expand, insistent, throbbing with Zenyatta’s cries. He cannot, _will not_ , even as his hand weaves down his body, presses hard against his modesty panel. It does little.

He does not know whether to feel joy or remorse when their motions grow desperate, moaning and chirping in unison, Zenyatta’s insides on display for him to see. His master groans like it hurts when he comes, a rush of teal slick coating Mondatta’s cock still pistoning recklessly inside him, the obscenity of it echoing against the walls. The rocking stills suddenly, and Mondatta gasps, clutches Zenyatta’s legs beneath his knees where he’s had him pinned, mating him like an organic, like he was made for it, burying himself deeper still. He clinks their arrays together as his cock pulses, and with Zenyatta’s slick running in rivulets along it he can see how it throbs, filling him, how wet and used Zenyatta’s valve glistens in the low light.

Mondatta says something too low for him to hear, and Zenyatta cannot respond, makes a noise in binary so broken that Genji’s heart _aches_.

Then Mondatta fades like the sun sinks beneath the horizon, gradual but unstoppable, slick gushing in a final pulse from between Zenyatta’s thighs when he finally disappears, his master still clutching the air where Mondatta once lingered. He whimpers, clasps one quaking hand over his array, whole body trembling with the force of his emotions.

* * *

Genji wakes alone. He does not remember walking back to his room, or if his memory can be trusted, the strange impossibility of the night before thrumming through his mind. He rises before dawn, walks to the balcony where Zenyatta meets him every morning to meditate.

He is surprised to see Zenyatta there, and the omnic turns towards him, dips his head as Genji takes his seat across from him. Strangely enough, Zenyatta seems more aware than he did in the past week, array bright, intune with Genji’s uneasiness as he inquires about its cause.

Genji cannot answer.


End file.
